


The Days of the King

by elklights



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, POV Legolas Greenleaf, Post-War of the Ring, Sea-longing (Tolkien)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25075348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elklights/pseuds/elklights
Summary: The War of the Ring is over, but new conflicts are quick to arise. Legolas must navigate injury, friendship and the call of the Sea whilst helping rebuild two war-ravaged Kingdoms. If only the aftermath of the battle were as straightforward as the battle itself.[Illustrated]
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Legolas Greenleaf, Gimli (Son of Glóin) & Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 31
Kudos: 110





	1. The Crowns we Wear

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This fic is a six-parter; I played around with the format and it seemed to flow best like that. It's ended up as quite a hash of book and movie canon, with my own interpretations of Tolkien's work thrown in for good measure. The result is not what I expected when I started writing it. Constructive criticism is always appreciated; I hope you like it.
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful @lycheesodas who has created beautiful art for [chapter 2](https://lycheesodas.tumblr.com/post/643187124117585920/another-scene-from-the-days-of-the-king-by), [chapter 4](https://lycheesodas.tumblr.com/post/638034694825492480/a-scene-from-the-days-of-the-king-by-elklights) and [chapter 6](https://lycheesodas.tumblr.com/post/639151628264587264/final-scene-from-the-days-of-the-king-by) of this fic!
> 
> Translations and additional notes are at the end. My thanks for reading!  
> ~Elk

Elessar was crowned, the crowds cheered, and the petals of late spring fell.

The colours were rich; the King's tunic boasted a soft, night-dark velvet, a fair white mantle clasped elegantly at his neck with a precious jewel of vivid green that glowed from afar with youthful vitality. Upon his brow rested the Age-old sea-bright silver of his new crown, bold and winged and lofty, and seven gems of adamant were lit with sun-fire at its peak. He held his head high, though Legolas knew the weight it bore would be heavy indeed.

"Behold the King!" his steward cried, and the crowds echoed. "Behold the King!"

The procession from the Gateway wound long and slow through the cobbled streets of the citadel. Tossed garlands smeared orange and pink across the ground, torn up by the press of one thousand feet and one hundred hooves. Horse bits jangled like bright silver bells.

The city gleamed in the morning light, radiant with the brilliant shine of dancing sunbeams and the promise of a new king. Seven levels of white stone rose high above the festivities, proud and dazzling, steady in the cliff face, steady on the plain. _It is a noble city, befitting of a noble king_ , Legolas thought. How strange it seemed to have fought so passionately and desperately for its freedom, not even two months past.

" _They are commissioning citadels in Gondor to watch for the darkness,"_ his father had told him, an Age and yesterday ago. _"Minas Anor and Minas Ithil, the Towers of the Sun and Moon."_

Legolas looked up at Minas Tirith and wondered when the _Tower of the Guard_ had become a more appropriate name than the _Tower of the Sun_. The encroach of darkness here had been fast, he knew, nothing like the sickening creep of poison through Mirkwood's boughs, but although Legolas recalled every moment he had lived with still-pool clarity, elven seasons blended as running water over rolling plains. Eight months of close companionship with mortals had taught him much, but he still struggled to sequence time as they could; sometimes, in the middle of a dark watch, he would look on his sleeping companions to ensure they still breathed. Sometimes Aragorn would rise with the sun and ask why Legolas had watched through the night without waking him. Often, Legolas could not find the words to explain.

A creeping coldness lingered around his spine, at odds with the warm southerly breeze brushing his face and lifting his hair. Such unease was far harder to bear than any physical wound.

Realisations of fleeting mortality, Legolas had found, did not strike as fire-bolts of lightning. The process was more one of gradual awareness, an abstract knowledge of things come to pass and things yet to come, in cycles of seasons of running water over rolling plains where one drop could be carelessly lost, just like that. Legolas had discovered, in the last year, that he had a lot of drops to lose.

The procession turned a corner and Legolas caught a flower thrown by an old maid. It was large and purple, and he twisted the stem through the browband of Arod's bridle to sit with the silver ferns already woven there. His fingers were smudged blue with ceremonial war paint when he finished, and he patted Arod's shoulder in apology, barely refraining from wiping his palm on the silver silks of his formal robes.

"A royal flower, that," said Gimli from behind him. Legolas twisted in surprise and eyed the dwarf suspiciously.

"Purple's a good, strong colour," said the dwarf, voice a little gruff. "Symbolises wisdom, nobility, the like. A nice cut gem of that would be a kingly gift indeed."

Legolas wondered at Gimli's thus far undiscovered poetic tendencies and if such associations extended to the colour of his beard, which he had knotted with bright red string and golden beads for the ceremony. Legolas was somewhat familiar with Gimli's superstitious ways (he always laced his right boot first and never lit his pipe without turning it twice), but he had not considered dwarves to assign individual meanings to different rocks. Silvan elves rarely cared for precious trinkets, and Legolas' father chose his gems by their Song of reflected starlight rather than their hue.

"It's a tulip," he replied. The procession continued. He made no more moves to catch any flowers.

"So?" asked Gimli. "You caught it, lad. You may not care for the finer points of Mahal's work, but I'll shave my beard if your people don't have some symbolism or other for that plant."

Legolas patted Arod's shoulder and twisted the reins between his fingers. Blue paint smudged across the dark leather. The cries of the crowd echoes with the cries of the gulls. "Rebirth," he said, after a length. "They symbolise new life."

Gimli hummed. "A new Age of kings," he said.

"For Elessar," said Legolas.

"For us all," said Gimli.

The crowds cheered around them as they climbed the remaining levels of the citadel in silence.

* * *

The procession ended at the White Tree, which was, in Legolas' humble opinion, rather poorly named. It was barely white and barely a tree.

"A sad bit of vegetation, that," said Gimli, and Legolas found himself reluctantly agreeing. It looked more dead than alive, grey-streaked branches twisted, thin, and grasping, and it listed heavily to one side. He had seen healthier trees in Southern Mirkwood during the days of The Necromancer's rule. There was, he concluded, a distant irony in what was a rather sorry symbol for one of the greatest Realms in _Arda_.

Gimli cleared his throat, and Legolas nudged Arod into line behind the hobbits. They were livered in the respective colours of their service and mounted on shaggy ponies, situated at the front of the crowd in what was, Legolas suspected, both an honorary and practical position. Meriadoc twisted in his seat to wave at them, and Peregrin twisted in his seat to see who Meriadoc was waving at.

"Hullo Legolas," he said, craning his neck to see past him. "Is… Gimli? Can you see anything?"

"Aye," grunted Gimli from his seat behind Legolas. "I can see just fine, lad."

Legolas was unsure how Gimli could see anything other than his back, but the dwarf had grumbled enough about mounting Arod in the first place, so he held his tongue. Apparently satisfied with this answer, Peregrin returned to face the front and started pointing out interesting outfits to his cousin.

Samwise turned his head to see who Peregrin had greeted. He was gripping the pommel of his saddle so tightly his knuckles were starting to turn white.

"It's rather decent of you both to join us here," he said, with the air of someone making conversation to take his mind off the fact he was sitting more than two feet off the ground. "When you could be with your own people, and all."

Legolas had already met with his own people. His father had been unable to attend the coronation, but he had sent a number of Lords and Ministers in his place, and they had barely finished their formal greetings to Legolas before swamping him with overdue princely duties. He had obliged, of course ─he had never been one to take responsibility lightly─ but for now, he was quite happy over here.

Gimli grunted. "We're here to support the lad," he said. "We can hardly do that from back there, can we?" Legolas felt him gesture in the vague direction of the Erebor delegation. They had stationed themselves at the opposite end of the courtyard to his father's elves.

"Fellowships such as ours cannot be broken," said Legolas softly. He wondered who he was trying to convince.

"Well, it's still jolly decent of you," decided Samwise. "All these lords make a hobbit feel quite out of place, if you follow me."

"But Legolas and Gimli are lords too, Sam," said Peregrin, losing interest in his people-spotting and returning to the conversation. "And so are Merry and I, and Strider is King, and Gandalf is, well, Gandalf, so really, it's just you and Cousin Frodo─"

"That'll do, Pip lad," said Frodo. "Don't drag me into this one, please."

Peregrin shifted his seat and turned to face the front again. Legolas traced the curled edges of the ferns in Arod's bridle and the paint smears on his reins and flexed his left elbow absently as they waited.

"My friends," said Elessar a short time later, standing in his stirrups. His full plate armour caught the sun and flashed silver-bright as he moved, seven stars and a gilded tree glinting from his breastplate. Andúril hung sharp with cutting sunbeams at his hip. Legolas had never seen the man so fully armoured. Despite his own high collar and heavy silks, he felt strangely exposed.

A hush fell over the crowd.

"My brothers," said Elessar. "My kin."

He swung down from his horse and knelt before the White Tree. Two thousand people watched as he bowed his head, unsheathed Andúril, and laid it on the ground.

"I will serve," he said, "in life and in death, with all the strength in my body and all the resolve of my heart, I promise to protect Gondor and her people."

With those words, Elessar rose smoothly and picked his sword up off the dirt. Legolas heard his right knee crack when he stood, as it always did. The pearls of his winged crown gleamed with the light of the sun and the sea upon his brow.

"This day does not belong to one man, but to all," said Elessar. "Let us together rebuild this world, that we may share in the days of peace." The crowds cheered, and blossoms fell, and Elessar walked among his people until he reached the steps to the Hall of Kings. The doors stood tall and dark amidst the pale marble of the surrounding masonry, and though they were open, Legolas could not see inside. Elessar paused at the top of the steps and turned to scan the crowd as if searching for something.

" _Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta_!" he sang, and his voice was low and lilting, and his eyes were bright.

He paused a moment longer, then turned and entered the Hall of Kings. Legolas watched as his figure merged with the shadows of columns and disappeared from elven sight.

* * *

"Come on, lad," said Gimli.

The courtyard was almost empty. Only a few lords still mingled, none of which Legolas knew; most everyone had left to offer Elessar their blessings and prepare for the evening's feast. With the crowds dispersed and the horses seen to, the only colour could be found smeared orange and pink across the flagstones. Occasionally a breath of wind would lift a blossom up over the edge of the citadel, where it would flutter a while and fall.

Legolas perched on the narrow wall of the seventh level outcrop and flexed his elbow absently as he overlooked the fields of Pelennor. The plains stretched wide and grassy below him, unrolling into a horizon which fell away under clear, still skies. Legolas could make out the crumbling windows of Osgiliath's ruin below the towering shadow of the _Ephel Dúath_. The running water of the Anduin flowed steadily over the rolling plains. Everything seemed both very great and very small.

"Oi, you crazy elf," said Gimli. Legolas hummed in acknowledgement and did not move.

Another petal fluttered past. It would have presented an ideal target for practice, had he been armed and permitted to shoot within the citadel. If Legolas squinted it could have been a feather, salt-white with the promise of wide seas and wild forests and seeing his mother again and leaving permanently behind all his mortal friends and everything he held dear in _Arda_ , including Gimli and Aragorn and Elessar.

"At least come down and acknowledge me from where I can see you!"

Legolas jumped to his feet on the wall and looked down at the dwarf. Gimli's head finished an arm's length below his perch, and from this height and without his mail to bulk him out he seemed very small. _It is a good thing the wall is so high,_ though Legolas absently, _or he might blow over the edge._ The cry of a gull echoed in his ears, the taste of salt light upon his tongue. A warm breeze lifted his hair and he closed his eyes and swayed with the movement.

"Lad, get down," said Gimli. "I'll not explain what happened to Aragorn when you kill yourself with your reckless behaviour. A crazy fine pair, you two make!"

Legolas stilled his movement and opened his eyes. "I am a wood-elf," he said, and dropped noiselessly to the ground beside Gimli. The dwarf cursed under his breath and stepped back. "I would not fall."

Gimli grunted and tucked his beard into his belt, knotting the decorative strings around his thick buckle to keep them in place. "You can tell him that yourself," he said. "Drag your pointy-eared head down from the clouds and stop moping. Our presence in the hall is overdue."

Congratulations to Elessar were in order. There were festivities to prepare for, circlets to make, and probably papers to sign for his father's Ministers. Legolas had not even seen to Arod, yet.

"I will follow," said Legolas, without moving.

Gimli considered him for a moment, rolling a golden bead at the end of his beard between his fingers. It caught on his signet ring with every other pass. "Follow soon, lad," he said, and re-tucked his beard before making off across the courtyard.

Legolas took a final sweeping glance over the Pelennor and wondered why he felt as if he had come to an end, at this time of new beginnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Mahal = the Khuzdul name for the Vala Aulë. He's responsible for building things in Middle Earth; his side hobby is building dwarves, for some reason. The dwarves are very grateful for this and like him a lot.
> 
> Arda = Sindarin name for Middle-Earth
> 
> "Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta!" = Aragorn's song is a Quenya translation of "Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world." This is lifted from the book 6 of LOTR, which quotes: 'And those were the words that Elendil spoke when he came up out of the Sea on the wings of the wind'.
> 
> Ephel Dúath = Sindarin name for the Mountains of Shadow. This is the mountain range on Mordor's western and southern borders.
> 
> Notes:
> 
> Minas Tirith (Tower of the Guard) was originally called Minas Anor (Tower of the Sun). Minas Morgul (Tower of Dark Sorcery) was originally called Minas Ithil (Tower of the Moon). At some point Sauron took it over and decided it was high time for some gentrification and rebranding. The rest is history.
> 
> Part of Aragorn's coronation speech is lifted from the film: "This day does not belong to one man, but to all. Let us together rebuild this world, that we may share in the days of peace." It's too perfect not to include!


	2. The Feasts we Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elessar throws a feast, Gimli eats all the salted pork, and Legolas has a chat with Glorfindel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter by the wonderful @lycheesodas can be found [here](https://lycheesodas.tumblr.com/post/643187124117585920/another-scene-from-the-days-of-the-king-by)!
> 
> Translations and notes are at the end. My thanks for reading!

The sun fell quickly from hazy pink skies on the evening of Elessar's coronation. Legolas sat in front of the looking glass in his room and watched the dusk darken and blur through his balcony doors as he readied himself for the evening's feast.

The _Eryn Lasgalen_ delegation ─how Legolas' _fae_ had sung when he had heard news of the Forest's renaming─ had brought him enough finery to wear to a full week of coronation celebrations. Legolas suspected some involvement on the part of his father, who knew well his son's dislike of formal attire and was possibly currently rather irate at said son's unannounced and prolonged absence on a mortally perilous quest suggested by Mithrandir and accompanied by four hobbits, a dwarf, and the dirty ranger who had left them the creature Gollum.

Legolas thanked the stars Elessar was a practical man and had chosen to host only one night of royal feasting.

He had not seen the King since shortly after his speech at the White Tree that morning, delivered kneeling on the stone before the brittle branches of his forefathers. Legolas knew well the sacrifices demanded by a royal mantle, and the weight of its burden was still fresh for Elessar. He would not intrude where he was not asked for.

" _I will serve in life and in death",_ the King had said. Legolas slipped his signet ring onto his finger and traced the curl of mithril ferns looping around the Elvenking's rearing stag. He wondered how one could serve their realm in death, and why Elessar had thought to specify the inevitable.

The faint cry of a gull drifted through open balcony doors upon the breeze and a rush of seafoam and longing filled Legolas' ears. He clasped a band of mithril around his arm, braided a wreath of ferns and flowers through his hair, smeared a fresh star of blue paint upon his brow, and tried to forget the Sea. When he had finished his preparations and the waves still brushed his _fae_ and the taste of salt lingered on his tongue, he stood, absently flexing his elbow, and made his way to the balcony, hoping the fresh air would clear his mind for the evening ahead.

His rooms were high in the White Tower and his balcony overlooked the sweeping vista of the plains below the citadel. Legolas leaned upon the cool stone of the balustrade, berated himself for taking injury at the Morannon, and dreamed of riding hard and free beneath the stars, bareback upon Arod, the wind in his hair and life in his laugh. He closed his eyes and imagined that bird cries were whinnies and the thunder of waves was the thunder of hooves. His _fae_ settled slowly back into _Arda_ , though a distant part of it still longed for the Sea, as it always did, these days.

Legolas re-opened his eyes and stood for a while, watching the last of the stars rise until they hung as glistening droplets from a laced net above the citadel. Eärendil shone bold and blue at its zenith, and Legolas looked upon the Star of High Hope and wondered what it was like to freely roam the skies night after night, and what it was like to be alone until the end of all days. He touched his brow where blue powder marked an Elvenprince's ceremonial star-smear and wondered at the symbolism of painting the same stars on his brow to celebrate a feast as he did to go to war.

" _I will serve in life and in death,"_ the King had said. Legolas wondered why it felt to him as if Aragorn had already died.

Legolas lifted his face to the stars. He would Sing to them if he had time, but time was precious, so he settled for a plea. _Grant me your guidance, Eärendil,_ he asked silently, _as you have ever done before battle, for I do not know what comes, and I am scared._

With that admission, everything changed, and nothing changed, and Eärendil looked down upon him and he felt hollow. Legolas gazed through the stars for another moment before turning to finish his preparations for the King's feast.

* * *

Legolas exited his room to find Gimli waiting for him at the end of the corridor.

"The hobbits went on without you, _Ernil nin_ ," Eluchon informed Legolas from his post at the door.

Legolas smiled in response. The older elf had been a close friend of his for many years and upheld his duties as a member of the Royal Guard with diligence and grace, though the arrival of Erebor's notably _dwarven_ delegation had shaken his composure somewhat. He was not the only member of the Elvenking's household so affected; Legolas and Gimli had initially taken a perverse pleasure in winding up the other's escort, although they had stopped after a few weeks when the constant hostilities became rather wearing.

Gimli coughed loudly from the end of the corridor, and Eluchon's smile became slightly thin. The dwarf had pulled a crafty prank on him a few days previously and the elf's boots had yet to reappear, though Legolas knew they were behind the headboard of Gimli's bed. He dismissed Eluchon from duty for the night with a nod of thanks and continued down the corridor alone.

By the time Legolas reached Gimli the dwarf was pointedly tapping his foot and grumbling to himself through his beard, which flamed coarse red under the torchlight. He had combed it, waxed it, and re-knotted it with thick orange strings tied off with golden runic beads. It had become clear early on in their acquaintance that Gimli took great pride in his copious amounts of hair. This was something Legolas could respect.

"It took you long enough, lad," groused Gimli as they set off together. "My beard's grown to a fine length indeed in the time it's taken you to make yourself pretty."

Legolas had heard Gimli leave his room only a minute or so before he had. He diplomatically refrained from passing comment.

"This feast's been a long time coming, I'll say," continued Gimli. "I've heard a wee rumour our good friend the King's been stockpiling his finest salted pork for this very night." Legolas had never known Aragorn to stockpile anything, much less salted pork, and suspected Gimli's informant was either Meriadoc or Peregrin. He was unsure whether this gave the claim greater or lesser validity, considering the topic was food.

"Of course," continued Gimli, "the real treat'll be the ale. It'd be better if it were dwarven, make no mistake, but if there's one thing this city can do right, it's brew their hops." He elbowed Legolas and grinned up at him. "What d'you say to another drinking contest, eh laddie?"

Legolas raised an eyebrow and glanced down at Gimli. "You remember our last one, Master Dwarf?" he asked.

Gimli looked up at him for a moment, then elbowed his side again, laughing deep from his belly.

"You watch yourself, lad," he said. "Us dwarves are natural drinkers. You'll be left in the dirt if you don't mind yourself."

Legolas smiled but did not reply, and they continued the short walk to the Feasting Hall in silence. They were stopped at the doors by a young herald in the black and silver livery of the King.

"Lords Legolas and Gimli?" he asked, eyeing them nervously, and Gimli grunted in affirmation. Legolas wondered how many other elf-dwarf pairs had approached the hall that evening that they required such identification.

"Lord Legolas Thranduilion, Elvenprince of North _Eryn Lasgalen_ , and member of the Fellowship of the Ring," the herald announced, and Legolas entered the hall.

Columns of polished white marble several stories tall rose from pale flagstones to frame the two long sides of the room. Where they neared the ceiling, they branched and arched in thin white bands to border an intricate mural spanning the length of the hall. Legolas recognised the painted figure of Elendil stepping from foaming waves, draped in heavy silks with a winged crown of pearls and silver flashing on his brow. At the high table sat Elessar upon a dark chair of carven wood. The same crown rested on his head.

"Lord Gimli Glóinson, Dwarf of Erebor, and member of the Fellowship of the Ring."

Gimli came up behind him. "Let's go see the lad, eh?" he said, and they walked together to the King's table. Elessar stood to greet them as they approached.

"My friends!" he cried, and his smile was broad, and his eyes shone. "Look what the wargs dragged in. I feared I would have to come and fetch you myself." He eyed them briefly and smiled again. "Neither of you brush up so badly, I grant you that. Come, sit."

Aragorn waved a hand in the direction of the table and Legolas took his place between Faramir and Gimli near the end.

"My Lords," said Faramir with a nod, smiling and turning from his conversation with Éowyn, who was seated at his other side. Though slightly pale, they both appeared much improved from their time in the Houses of Healing. Their knees touched under the table.

"Lord Steward," said Legolas, inclining his head. "My Lady."

"Lady," echoed Gimli with a short nod. "Lord."

Éowyn smiled at them. "None of that, now," she said. "We are all friends here. My Lord Faramir has just been telling me of his preparations for the night's feasting."

Gimli leaned forward over the table conspiratorially. "Tell me, is it true the lad's been holding back the city's salted pork?"

Meriadoc stuck his head around Frodo from their place several seats away. "Did someone say salted pork?" he asked.

Legolas quirked a smile and settled back in his chair to let the conversation wash over him.

* * *

The food was long cleared and the night was lifting when Legolas was hailed in Sindarin from across the hall. He uncrossed his ankles and stood from where he leant against a broad column when he saw that the speaker had been the Lord Glorfindel, who was walking over to him from where the Lord Elrond was seated. The tables had been moved some hours ago to make space for dancing, and not a few maidens giggled at the elf-lord as he crossed the hall. Glorfindel smiled at each of them charmingly but kept his pace until he reached Legolas.

" _Hîr nin_ Glorfindel," said Legolas, briefly twisting a palm over his heart. "You have need of me?"

Glorfindel smiled and returned the gesture. His sleeves were embroidered with large golden flowers, and the looping thread shone as it caught the light. "I thought I might keep you company," he said, before leaning in and lowering his voice as if sharing some great secret. The tiny bells adorning his ears tinkled as he moved. "My Lord Elrond can hold a dry conversation, at times. Extensive knowledge of obscure lore makes a wise Lord, but it does not always make for good entertainment."

Legolas blinked and leaned back against his column. The marble was cool and firm at his back. "Your company is much appreciated, my Lord," he said politely, glancing over to the dance floor. "Though company would not be so hard for you to find this evening, I think."

Glorfindel smiled at this and turned to wink at a nearby group of ladies, who all blushed prettily, giggled, and averted their eyes. He turned back to Legolas. "You flatter me, _penneth_ ," he said, with only a hint of dryness. "Do not think I have not seen them looking at you."

Legolas had not, in fact, seen them looking at him, and was unsure of how to reply. He kept silent.

Glorfindel smiled and gestured to the column Legolas was leaning against. "May I?" he asked. Legolas nodded his assent, and Glorfindel turned to recline against the polished marble next to him. They leant there for a while and watched the celebrations. Heavy silks swirled in rich waves as ladies were lifted for their spins, and the scent of perfume hung thick and sweet in the air. Music flooded the hall, swelling above the chatter and laugher of several hundred guests. Elendil observed from the ceiling with his sun-silver crown of winged pearls and an omnipresent gaze.

"I travelled to Minas Tirith for a coronation," said Glorfindel, after a length. "I travelled for a celebration of victory for light in _Arda_ , and to see my blessed duties done, and to watch Estel become a man at last."

Across the hall, Arwen laughed as Elrond asked her hand in dance. She glowed with fair light amongst the torches and those she loved, her eyes bright with youth and her smile bright with joy.

"It is a joyous time," said Legolas.

Glorfindel followed his gaze and raised an eyebrow. "It is," he said. His voice hung in the air with unusual weight. He waved a hand in Elrond's direction. "Yet everywhere I turn, people mourn."

Legolas watched Elrond twirl Arwen, her laughter lilting as fair music, and thought of Elessar kneeling before the White Tree to pledge his death to his people. He twisted his ring on his finger but did not reply.

When he did not speak, Glorfindel reached out to brush the circlet of leaves upon Legolas' brow. "Silver ferns I understand," he said. " _Artafánë_ , too, for devotion and courage. But Sweet Peas, Legolas? This is no funeral. To whom do you say farewell?"

Legolas leaned away from the touch. His time as the only elf in a world of mortals had accustomed him to physical and mental distance with those around him. He had forgotten how tactile his own kind could be; he had not expected anyone to read into the flowers of his circlet.

"Come, _penneth_ ," said Glorfindel with a slight smile. "Do not look so surprised. I was Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, in another life." His gilded hair hung in loose curls about his shoulders, and he reached up to tuck a lock behind his ear so Legolas could see a sprig of golden elanor threaded by his temple. The bells in his ears tinkled brightly.

 _Lord Glorfindel slew a Balrog and fell_ , realised Legolas. He had been so preoccupied with the Sea and celebrations, the thought had passed him by until now, and the realisation twisted something in his gut. Elven minstrels still wove songs of the elanor that had blossomed on the elf-lord's grave. _Of course, he can read flowers._

"Besides," Glorfindel said, raising an eyebrow, "you were lurking alone in the corner. I do not need to speak in flowers to notice _that_. Where is your dwarf, hmm?"

Legolas turned his mind from gravemounds and elanor and gestured to the far end of the hall where Gimli had situated himself with Éomer and the ale casks for company. The dwarf was gesturing to the King of Rohan with sweeping movements that threatened to upturn his cup with every pass and seemed to be waxing some sort of poetry, likely, Legolas guessed, over the finer points of Dwarven women. As they watched, he listed heavily to the left. Éomer grabbed his tunic to pull him back to vertical, and Gimli thumped the table and took another swig.

Glorfindel hummed. "Ah," he said, then: "You would not dance?"

Legolas looked back to the dance floor as Faramir spun Éowyn in a swirl of white. They laughed as she landed and he brought her close, and Legolas twisted his fingers and looked away.

"Legolas," Glorfindel said then, and his voice was gentle. " _Penneth_ , you think you are saying farewell. Tell me, why do you mourn?"

Across the hall, the King took Arwen's hand from Elrond and twirled her for a kiss. The gem at his throat shone vibrant green. Legolas' heart weighed heavy in his chest and his _fae_ pulled for the Sea, and for a moment, he could not recall why he was here.

Legolas looked up at Glorfindel, and the Lord's pale eyes shone with the kindling wisdom of ancient stars, silver-clear with emotion just beyond Legolas' comprehension. Legolas found no answers; he did not know the questions. He turned away.

"We have won," he said, and he was not sure if he believed it.

Glorfindel leaned back against the column and paused a moment before answering. "We are warriors," he said at last. "You and I, _penneth_ , we see battle in everything."

Faramir led Éowyn off the dance floor and whispered something in her ear. Her answering laughter rang bold and bright.

"We have won, Legolas, and you have fought hard for it," said Glorfindel. "Do not sacrifice more than you already have for a victory already secured."

The dancers swirled and the music swelled and Elendil observed from above. Legolas turned to the open doors and looked out upon the sky. The stars had begun to fall and the dawn had begun to lighten, the sun climbing from behind shadowed mountains to smooth the Fields of Pelennor with gold.

"This is winning?" asked Legolas.

"This is winning," said Glorfindel, and his pale eyes were weighted with six thousand years of sorrow and two lifetimes of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Eryn Lasgalen = Sindarin for 'Wood of Greenleaves'. This was the new name chosen for Mirkwood by Thranduil and Celeborn after the War of the Ring
> 
> Fae = Sindarin for 'soul/spirit' (More commonly referred to as fëa in Quenya, but Thranduil originates from Doriath where Quenya was banned by King Thingol, so I assume him and Legolas use the Sindarin term instead)
> 
> Morannon = Sindarin name for the Black Gate
> 
> Eärendil = The elves' brightest and most beloved star. He's actually Elrond's dad, floating around in the sky on his ship with a special stolen gem. Elrond's mum is a bird. Family reunions are weird.
> 
> Ernil nin = Sindarin for my Prince
> 
> Hîr nin = Sinadarin for my Lord
> 
> Artafánë = Quenya for noble-white, which translates into Edelweiss in German. These are small white flowers symbolising devotion and courage.
> 
> Penneth = Sindarin for young one
> 
> Elanor = Sindarin for sun-star. They are small, star-shaped yellow flowers, created by Tolkien
> 
> Notes:
> 
> Silver ferns symbolise sincerity, strength, enduring power, and new life.
> 
> Sweet peas symbolise gratitude, tenderness, and farewell.
> 
> Elendil was Isildur's father, and the first High King of Gondor and Arnor. They managed to hitch a free boat ride to Middle-earth when the Valar sent a massive tsunami to drown their old home, the Isle of Númenor.


	3. The Battles we Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Legolas struggles to sleep, and Éomer finds a late-night sparring partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations are at the end. My thanks for reading!

Shadows layered thickly upon the ceiling stones to cloak the room with deep night, darkness twisting with liquid fluidity between cracks in the masonry. Moonbeams spilled through open balcony doors to pool silver-clear on the flagstones, liquid light flowing molten-bright across the floor. Above Minas Tirith, Ithil hung low and full, a pearl plucked from deep velvet skies. The citadel was silent; most everyone slept.

Legolas did not.

He had been attempting to walk the dream-paths since sundown, but each time his eyes began to glaze and the shadows began to slip from his vision, a fresh spray of salt crested his _fae,_ and he returned to the waking world for fear of drifting too far into his mind. Elvish sleep blended living night with deep dream; this was a difficult balance to weigh when the dreams were as deep as a boundless ocean and echoed with the cries of gulls.

It had been three long nights since Legolas had last found rest.

The previous day had been the first since Elessar's coronation, and Legolas had spent much of it both avoiding and seeking company. The seeking of company had been easy; Elladan had, predictably, been in the Houses of Healing, and had examined Legolas' elbow quickly enough before declaring him fit for return to full duties.

Avoiding company had been somewhat more difficult. Whilst the majority of the city's population had sequestered themselves away from daylight and civilisation to nurse the aftereffects of the previous night's celebrations, his father's ministers had seemed unfortunately immune to the aftereffects of Elessar's alcohol. Legolas could not say he was overly surprised; he had grown up in Mirkwood, where celebrations lasted for weeks and the finest Dorwinion was left to age for significantly longer. He would have been surprised if any elf from his father's realm could get drunk off human alcohol. Still, he had hoped.

It had not worked; the ministers had cornered him anyway. Legolas' seven months galivanting across _Arda_ and neatly avoiding his paperwork had apparently resulted in something of an administration backlog. Whilst his Lieutenant had dealt with matters of urgent import, the Elvenking had kindly thought to save the more tedious reports for Legolas' return to polite civilisation. Legolas had not been particularly impressed with this display of generosity.

The upside of the day's meetings and paperwork was that he had been able to avoid Gimli in all his hungover ire. You could not speed a passing storm, Legolas had found, or fetch a lagging sun. Some things (such as the ill temperaments of hungover dwarves) were best left to pass alone.

Nevertheless, by the time the Minister of Trade had taken his leave just after the evening meal, Legolas' thoughts had fogged with weariness. He had laid on the bed, slowed his breath, and gazed at the swirling shadows above him. He tried not to think of how they lapped as waves on the shore of the ceiling, or how his _fae_ pulled with every breath, caught by promises of swift currents and magnetic tides.

" _We are warriors,"_ the Lord Glorfindel had said the previous night, and the torchlight had lit up his golden hair so he appeared as noble and fierce as in the songs. _"We see battle in everything."_ Legolas only distantly remembered wandering on sunlit dream-paths fresh with the smell of recent rain, at a time when the Sea was only an echo of salt-spray upon a silver shore. He wondered how he could see the future as anything but a battle, when the Sea edged his every moment, questioned his every thought, and rocked his every move.

Legolas eyed the ceiling a moment longer before huffing and rising from the bed. He pulled on his boots and grabbed his blade holsters, vambraces and waterskin as he made for the door. If he were fated to fight, he could at least ensure he fought well. He had a healer's pass and six weeks of inactivity to account for. The dream-paths could wait a little longer.

* * *

Legolas emerged from the foot of the White Tower at the Courtyard entrance. The citadel glowed silver-bright, the White Tree bleached brittle with reflected moonlight where it rose up ahead of him between columns of covered walkways run through by inky shadow. The night was still, and silent.

Legolas stepped into the courtyard, and the tinkling of bells echoed through the night. He backed into the shadow of an archway, legs tensed and ears alert, tightening his grip on the hilt of a knife as he scanned the area. Nothing moved. The city was still. The cry of a gull echoed faintly. Legolas waited another moment, then shook his head and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm and continued towards the barracks.

He made it to the topmost training field without another incident and vaulted the gate with ease, dropping his waterskin on a low bench by the perimeter wall and lacing the strings of his vambrace with one hand as he reached up with the other to flip the sign by the entrance so it read _'blades'_.

He tied off his vambrace and stood for a moment in the cool air, breathing in the deep stillness of the night. He longed for his bow, for its carven wood and taut sting, for the rush of adrenaline and the high whine of an arrow mid-flight. He longed for his blades, for sharp flashes and clean flows, to spin and leap and dance along a knife-edge. Mostly, he longed to _fight_ , until his muscles ached and his chest heaved and his _fae_ sang of something other than the Sea.

Legolas moved to the centre of the field. It was large, and he was alone, and the night was still with silver moonlight. He spun once, and the thin cotton of his undershirt billowed with the motion. He smiled at the freedom of movement and spun again, thanking the stars he was not expected to wear formal silks more often. High collars and heavy robes were for scholars and Kings, not Silvan warriors. Legolas was here to train.

He closed his eyes to centre his _fae_. The ring of gull cries and bells echoed faintly in his ears, and water spilled foam-grey upon the banks of his mind. He took a deep breath and let it out with a roll of waves, opening his eyes and unsheathing his knives. Ferns of golden filigree curled and gleamed as he examined the blades, turning them in his palms as he weighted their familiar ivory-smooth and mithril-sharp lethality. Their handles were cool to touch.

Legolas fixed his gaze in the middle distance over the city wall and spun his blades a few times over his wrists, the movements slow and precise as he refamiliarised himself with the patterns of his exercises after weeks of inactivity. The motions came instinctively, as he had known they would, and he sped up the movements until the mithril was only a passing flare of reflected moonlight upon his wrist, before slowing his blades and starting again.

After several cycles of this exercise Legolas' arms were beginning to warm and his mind was shifting to a more familiar place than where it had been for the past few days. He stilled his movements and flexed his left elbow to check for lingering weakness. There was none. Satisfied, he firmed his stance, readied his knives, and flipped them. Hilt passed over blade over hilt, over blade over hilt, over blade over hilt, over─

"The war is fought, yet the soldier still fights," said a deep voice from behind him. Legolas caught his blades and turned back to the gate of the training fields where the King of Rohan stood, his forearms resting on the painted metal. He wore a woollen tunic of dark green over what appeared to be his nightclothes. "I had not thought to come across another for whom sleep was so evasive."

Legolas inclined his head in greeting, eyeing Éomer as he did. He flipped his blade again and caught it. "I have no need of mortal rest," he said.

"A pity," said Éomer. "It can be a good escape, at times." He straightened his posture and made his way over, and his footsteps echoed loud and sure through the night. "I heard you took injury at the Black Gate, Master Elf."

Legolas tilted his head to consider the man and licked the taste of salt from his lips. "It was minor," he said, after a length. "A broken elbow." He flipped his blade and caught it. The mithril flashed silver-sharp in the moonlight. "I am healed."

Éomer nodded. "You are fortunate then. Such a wound would have shelved a man for months."

Legolas eyed the Horse-lord. They had returned from the Morannon five weeks ago, and he had taken his injury a week before that. "It _has_ been months," he said.

"Aye, and it would have been many more."

They stood there in silence a moment whilst Legolas considered the man. Éomer's main weapon was the longsword and his greatest asset was his strength of arm, but Legolas fought in a distinctly Silvan style, centred around agility and dexterity in enclosed spaces with numerous obstacles. Though Legolas had aimed to spend the night re-familiarising himself with his knife-work, he suspected his usual fighting style would be ill-suited to an empty field and a warrior who, however distinguished in combat, had never before crossed blades with a wood-elf.

Legolas nodded, spinning his knives and sheathing them in one fluid motion. "Spar with me," he said, unbuckling his holster and making his way to a rack of practice swords at the end of the field.

Éomer frowned as he fell into step next to him. "Aye, I came to train. Will you not require your blades?"

"Against you? I would try the sword," said Legolas. "I have no need of a longer reach in the forest, but it would have been useful on Pelennor and at the Morannon."

"You have fought with a sword before?" asked Éomer dubiously, binding his fair hair with a leather strip.

Legolas shrugged. "Some." He lifted a weapon from the rack. It was heavier than his knives and the balance was slightly off, but he had three thousand years of combat experience and six weeks of restless energy to burn. It would do. Éomer picked his own blade, and they returned to the middle of the field. Legolas flexed his elbow and rolled his shoulders and looked Éomer in the eye.

"My father is the best swordsman in _Arda_ ," he said.

Éomer grinned fiercely and came at him with a strong cry and a swinging blow.

* * *

Éomer sat heavily on the bench to catch his breath and drink deeply from his waterskin. Legolas perched next to him and absent-mindedly traced the ivory ferns inlaid into his knife handles. His limbs were warm, and his mind was clear. It was a good feeling.

“I have little experience with elven combat,” said Éomer, when he had regained his breath somewhat, “but amid men you fight fiercely indeed, and I have heard that your kind are resistant to mortal hurts. How did you take injury?”

A gull’s cry carried on the wind and a rush of seafoam drenched his _fae_. Legolas thought of screaming orcs and singing bows and _one brief moment of distraction_ and smiled. “In battle,” he said.

Éomer rolled his eyes and took another drink. “I have also heard that elves are unable to give a straight answer. I had thought the dwarf was exaggerating, but I see now this is not the case.”

Legolas wondered what else Gimli had told Éomer from the depths of his cups the night before. The Horse-lord appeared no worse for wear after his celebrations (indeed, he was up and training through the small hours), but Gimli’s tongue could get decidedly loose after a few ales, and some things Legolas preferred to keep private.

“An orc came up behind me,” he said. “I elbowed it.”

Éomer smiled grimly. “Aye, that would do it,” he said. “Let me guess; the orc came out worse off?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Legolas. “The ring was destroyed, and the ground opened. The orc fell.” He paused and tilted his head. “So, after all that, Gimli claims it does not count towards my tally.”

Éomer laughed, and the sound rang boldly through the empty field. “Aye, your competition,” he said. “The dwarf informed me loudly and repeatedly of his sure victory last night.”

Legolas idly traced a gilded fern. “I am the victor,” he said mildly. “Gimli does not count the _Mûmakil_.”

“The _Mûmakil?”_

Legolas frowned lightly and tapped a finger on the hilt of his knife. Eight months in the company of mortals had taught him much, but in moments such as this his limited understanding of their cultures became frustratingly apparent. “I do not know the Common word… they are large, with tusks.”

Éomer nodded, and hair and shadow masked his face. “Aye,” he said, voice low with an unexpectedly grim weight. “I know. Oliphaunts, we call them. They have cost us many a noble steed.”

Silence hung in still air, and Legolas wondered what else the war had cost them, and for how long their victory would continue to claim. He had left Imladris prepared to sacrifice his life for those he loved, but now, in the aftermath of the battle and the privacy of the night, that price seemed steeper than he had initially realised.

 _“This is winning_ ,” the Lord Glorfindel had said. “ _To whom do you say farewell?”_ Legolas was not sure. He felt disorientated, off-kilter, as if everything were changing so fast, so suddenly, that goodbyes were appropriate. His _fae_ pulled him both West with the promise of his mother and kin over the Sea, and East with the memory his father and kin and mortal friends in _Arda_. His mind was both lifted with the promise of the future, and weighed with the memory of the past. Elves lived in the present, moment by moment, star by star, but Legolas could not settle into the present knowing that whichever choice he made would echo with the loss of the other. There did not seem to be an outcome which did not result in farewell.

“I ride in the morn,” said Éomer, after a length. “Across the Pelennor, just for a few hours. Do not tell the Lord Aragorn, but I am not so fond of his white city of Sea-Kings. Too long has it been since I sat in a saddle.” His eyes were deep and dark with something close to understanding. “You are welcome to ride with us, if you require that escape.”

“Thank you, Éomer-King,” said Legolas softly, “but there are duties I must attend.”

Éomer sighed and stood, picking up his waterskin. “You are not bad with a sword, Master Elf,” he said. “Continue to train, if you will, but some of us require mortal sleep, so I will bid you farewell, and goodnight.”

He left, and Legolas sat in the pooling moonlight as the gull cries eddied on the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Ithil = Sindarin name for the moon


	4. The Duties we Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Legolas does some light reading, Gimli asks the important questions, and Arwen shares her secret garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter by the wonderful @lycheesodas can be found [here](https://lycheesodas.tumblr.com/post/638034694825492480/a-scene-from-the-days-of-the-king-by-elklights)!
> 
> Translations and additional notes are at the end. My thanks for reading!

Gentle birdsong curled upon a warm breeze, the morning sky clear and blue and stretched wide beyond the open window. Legolas did not admire the view; he sat at his desk and eyed the tall stack of papers in front of him, instead. It was not an inviting sight.

"This one is also for you, _Ernil nin_ ," said Faervel, placing another stack in front of him. Faervel was secretary to _Eryn Lasgalen's_ Minister of Trade; Legolas tended to avoid the Minister whenever possible, which meant had seen rather a lot of Faervel in his place, these last few days.

He scanned the title of the top page.

_PREFERENTIAL TRADE AGREEMENT POLICY IMPACTS ON TAXABLE GOODS ALLOWANCES_

Legolas blinked, and read it again. The words made little more sense the second time than they had the first.

He was no stranger to paperwork; his responsibilities as Captain included the administrative duties essential for running his Company, and his position as Elvenprince Heir unfortunately necessitated extensive training in all other areas of State. This stack of papers, however, was particularly thick, and the summary particularly dire. This had been the one aspect of home Legolas had _not_ missed, the past few months.

He made a questioning noise in the back of his throat, and Faervel glanced up from where he was leafing through papers to take a look. "Ah," he said from over Legolas' shoulder. "The Council thought it best to resume the trading of non-essentials as soon as possible. It is better to have our trade agreements in place before war rations are lifted; _Eryn Lasgalen_ will hardly be the only delegation asking for a share of Gondor's spice market."

Legolas looked at the summary in his hands. He was Prince of _Eryn Lasgalen_ , the Elvenking representative in Gondor, a member of the Fellowship of the Ring, yet the most suitable use of his time in aiding an international war effort was reading on potential spice trades?

Faervel smiled wryly. " _Aran nin_ had anything not requiring your immediate attention or signature forwarded on to me," he said, dropping another thick stack of reports onto the table. "So I shall be reading with you, _hîr nin_ , if that is any consolation."

"Thank you," said Legolas, flexing his elbow absently and picking up a quill. "It is not."

He settled in to read.

* * *

Legolas was only halfway through the second page when muffled voices drifted in from the corridor outside.

"My Prince is occupied with matters of State, Master Dwarf."

There was a muted thump. Legolas glanced up, hoping Gimli had stamped on the floor rather than Eluchon's foot. The guard had yet to find his missing boots. "Matters of State?" Gimli grumbled. He did not sound impressed. "Hmmpff! I'm here on behalf of King Elessar, my pointy-eared friend, and in case you have yet to realise, he _is_ the State!"

"My Prince is _busy_ , Master _Dwarf_."

"Your Prince is a _fool_ , Master _Elf_!"

There was a short pause and another thud, then Gimli raised his voice. "I know you can hear me, you pointy-eared princeling! You can't avoid me forever!"

Legolas sighed and set down his quill to rub his eyes with a hand.

"Let him in, Eluchon," he called.

"Aha!"

Eluchon bid Gimli enter somewhat stiffly; the dwarf had barely passed the threshold before the door was shut abruptly behind him. Faervel inclined his head in greeting, collected a stack of papers, and discretely took his leave.

"Matters of State," grumbled Gimli, untucking his beard from his belt and moving to sit heavily in the armchair by the fireplace, huffing and shifting as he made himself comfortable. His legs did not quite reach the floor. "Of all the excuses, lad, that was the best your pretty head could think up?"

Legolas tilted his head. "It is true," he said. "I am currently enthralled with… _preferential trade agreement policy impacts on taxable goods allowances_."

Gimli retrieved his pipe from his belt, turned it twice, and stuck it between his teeth, though he thankfully did not light it in the confines of Legolas' room. When he looked at Legolas, his deep-set eyes were keen and beetle-black. He rolled the end of his beard between his fingers.

"It's a busy time, aye," Gimli said, "but you are avoiding us, lad, don't think I don't know. This is an intervention."

A gull cry carried through the balcony doors. Legolas ignored it. "An intervention?" he asked, considering his friend and absently flexing his elbow. "I am quite healed, thank you. Elladan set my arm, and he knows his craft well."

Gimli scowled. "Blasted elven half-answers!" he grumbled. "You're avoiding the question. That's cause enough for intervention."

Gimli had told Eluchon he was here on behalf of the King, and Legolas wondered who this idea of a so-called intervention belonged to. He suspected it was a collaborative project, though he would not put it past Gimli to exaggerate to Eluchon if he thought it would get him past the guard; the dwarf had a fierce moral code, but could be incredibly stubborn when he truly set his mind to something. This 'intervention', at least, appeared to have ticked that box.

"You are lurking, lad," continued Gimli. "Slinking around and avoiding me and Aragorn, moping about as if someone has died─" He paused and chewed on his unlit pipe. "─Ah," he said, his voice slightly gruff. He cleared his throat and twisted the end of his beard, and when he spoke again, his voice was low. "Aye."

Legolas looked down at the paperwork on his desk and kept quiet as he wetted his lips against the lingering taste of salt. Gimli's gaze weighed heavily upon his bowed head.

"Legolas," said Gimli, at his usual volume, and Legolas looked up, surprised at the use of his name. "We're all still here."

Legolas twisted his fingers under the desk and looked down again.

"Is it the Sea?" asked Gimli. Legolas did not reply. Gimli cleared his throat again. "If you need to leave, lad─"

"No." A rush of sea-foam filled Legolas' ears, and he closed his eyes, disorientated. There was a brief silence whilst he collected himself.

"No," he said, more softly, when his _fae_ only drifted in the waves, rather than being submerged by them. "I have chosen to remain, and I will uphold my promise. I do not… I…" He twisted his fingers under the desk. "Can we not speak of this, Gimli?" he asked. His ran a tongue over teeth thick with crusted salt, feeling strangely disconnected from his body and as though he had been forcefully submerged in cold water. The cry of a gull rang through his ears. "I do not have… full control of it, yet."

Gimli appraised him, chewing on his pipe. "Tell me how you fare, lad, honestly," he said. "And talk to another elf, and I will not speak of it again, unless you ask."

Legolas twisted his fingers and considered the question. His _fae_ … he was unsure there was anything to be done for it. He had heard the Sea and embraced its call, all salt-white feathers and salt-foam shores, but now he was adrift, and it still begged for more. Legolas thought of Gimli and Aragorn and was unsure if he could give it _more_. He was unsure if he could not. _How did he fare?_ He fared. Was that not enough, for now?

"I─"

He was cut off by a smart knock at the door.

"Yes?" he called.

Faervel stuck his head into the room. "Apologies for the disturbance, my Lords. Our Minister of Trade is requesting an urgent meeting with _Ernil nin_. What should I tell him?"

Legolas looked to Gimli, who chewed on his pipe and rolled the end of his beard between his fingers but otherwise did not move. "You underestimate the stubbornness of dwarves," said Gimli. "You have not answered my question, so I will wait here until you do."

Legolas closed his eyes and attempted to rein in his _fae_ from where it had drifted during their conversation.

" _Ernil nin_?"

Legolas opened his eyes. "I am going over tax agreements, Gimli," he said, and if it came out harsher than intended, the guilt was drowned by a fresh crest of salt-spray. "It is hardly spectator sport."

Gimli scowled at his tone and abrupt dismissal but removed his pipe from his mouth to wipe it on his tunic and stick it in his belt anyway, standing from the chair with a grunt. When he eyed Legolas again, his gaze was dark and heavy with the same understanding that had shadowed Éomer's face that morning. Legolas wondered what the mortals around him understood that he did not.

"Speak to one of your own kind, lad," said Gimli. His tone was resigned, but he offered no negotiation. The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Legolas sat and stared at his papers a moment before rising and walking to the open balcony doors. He stood there as the warm breeze lifted his hair, gazing absently over the unfolded plains of Gondor. The world stretched wide beneath him.

Movement in the courtyard below caught his eye, and he looked down to see two guards open the doors to the Hall of Kings and salute Elessar as he emerged. The King wore no crown, but a tunic of royal blue stitched with white trees and seven stars hung from his broad shoulders. His posture was tall and regal, and when he laughed at a passing comment his teeth flashed bright in the morning sun. He looked every part a King of Men.

Legolas watched Elessar until he passed out of sight, then turned his gaze back to the wide expanse of the Pelennor, the grass rippling pale in the morning light. Five figures on horses galloped across the open plains, barely visible through the glare. Legolas could just make out one man's dark green tunic and fair hair flying out behind him. He could almost imagine the wind on his face, the thunder of hoofbeats, and Éomer's whoop of freedom.

" _Ernil nin_?" prompted Faervel.

Legolas turned to attend his papers.

* * *

The sun had long passed its zenith by the time Legolas politely dismissed his father's Minister of Trade and removed himself from his room-temporarily-turned-council-chambers, dismissing Eluchon with a nod of thanks he stepped out into the empty corridor. Golden light beamed through leaded windows, printing long diamonds onto pale flagstones. Specks of dust drifted lazily through rays of afternoon sun.

Legolas leant against the cool stone of the wall. He closed his eyes, and the sun was warm upon his face.

"Dreaming on the job?" asked a teasing voice from the end of the corridor.

Legolas stood up straight, twisting a palm to his heart and inclining his head in greeting. " _Undómiel,_ " he said, then: " _Hîr nin._ "

Arwen made her way down the corridor, the Lord Glorfindel following a few steps behind. No sooner had she reached Legolas than she elbowed him neatly in the side, smiling sweetly up at him as she did. "Please," she said, in a tone of honey laced with steel, "all these formalities and I shall be obliged to start addressing you as _Ernil nin_ , and that is not something either of us wish for."

Glorfindel quirked his lips and winked at Legolas over Arwen's head. Legolas grimaced faintly, partially to humour them both and partially because Arwen really could elbow with some force. He offered her a smile. "As you wish, _tithen-híril._ "

Arwen laughed brightly at the childhood nickname. Her back was to the window, and a crown of slanting light framed her twilit hair where it fell glossy about her shoulders. The pearls on her hairpins glowed with a pale radiance.

"This is a strange place to nap," she said, her voice light and bright and carrying a slightly sharpened edge. Legolas smiled but did not answer.

"Rebuilding the world is tiring work, _penneth_ ," said Glorfindel, his tone mild. The sun gilt his curls where they fell to his hips, and the bells adorning his ears tinkled faintly as he moved. He had yet to look away from Legolas, and his eyes and his presence shone with a touch of the ethereal.

Arwen laughed again and took Legolas' arm. "True enough," she said. "Come, walk with us. I have found a hidden garden, and rumour has it certain wood-elves are partial to an afternoon amongst the trees."

Legolas nodded his acquiescence. Arwen reached out with her other hand towards Glorfindel, but the elf-lord shook his head. "You two must enjoy your garden without me, I am afraid," he said. "I have remembered a matter I would speak with your father on." His gaze rested on Legolas, star-bright silver and inscrutable. The air hung very still. Legolas shifted his weight to his other leg and twisted a loose thread at the cuff of his tunic, unsure whether to meet his eyes or not.

"We will leave you to your duties, then," said Arwen, and the moment passed.

They bid their goodbyes, and Glorfindel left in a swirl of golden hair and the chime of silver bells. The corridor felt strangely hollow in the aftermath of his presence.

Legolas and Arwen set off in the other direction, descending two spiralling flights of stairs before turning left, then left again to pass through a dimly lit corridor. Arwen hummed as they walked, a sweet tune of days spent climbing trees and dancing through waterfalls and lounging beneath the stars. Legolas had not heard it for a very long time.

They re-emerged into sunlight at the foot of the Tower of Ecthelion, which shone above them as a spike of pearl and silver atop the citadel, its banner caught high in the morning breeze. Arwen had led them to a small walled garden, enclosed on one side by the tower, and two others by the sheer, dark face of Mount Mindolluin.The fourth wall faced South over the plains towards the Sea, and when Legolas looked over the edge, he saw it dropped away a hundred feet to the fifth level of the citadel.

"All this nature," teased Arwen, "and the wood-elf goes straight to the stone." She folded her legs gracefully beneath her to sit in the dappled shadows of a young beech, smoothing her skirts and patting the grass next to her. "Join me?"

Legolas turned away from the pull of the Sea and smiled, dropping to the grass next to her and idly admiring the tulips that ringed the garden in a ribbon of gem-bright purple. Their perfume was faint on the breeze.

"You have been very elusive, this last week," said Arwen. Her eyes shone starlit silver in the golden glow of the sun.

Legolas plucked a long blade of grass and split it neatly down the middle. "Lord Glorfindel speaks the truth," he said. "It is a busy time."

Arwen hummed and leaned back on her hands to gaze at the clouds. "I have hardly seen my brothers either," she said. "Elladan has done his very best to take up permanent residence in the Houses of Healing, and Elrohir… I have not seen Elrohir, much. He has been keeping the company of _Ada_ , Glorfindel and Erestor, these last few weeks."

"Perhaps he seeks advice? All three are wise elves."

"Yes," said Arwen, her face tilted towards the heavens. "They are elves."

Legolas plucked a second blade of grass to weave through the first, then a third, then a fourth. By the time he had woven his fifth strand the grass was shredded, and he dropped it next to him, slumping back to join Arwen watching wispy clouds thread high and white above the citadel. Occasionally a gull wheeled overhead, crying with promises of foaming waves and salted shores, and Legolas curled his fingers in the grass and let the song of the garden wash away the song of the Sea.

When Arwen began again to sing, Legolas closed his eyes and let her music wash away anything that remained.

Together they remembered the coolness of the Bruinen around their ankles and the roughness of the twigs stuck through their hair, and together they remembered the knowledge that a life in _Arda_ stretched ahead of them. They remembered the pull of an impossible choice, and the man they had made that choice for, and they remembered the brush of the stars on their faces and the brush of love on their _fae_. The clouds drifted overhead, high and white and wispy with caught memories and promises, and they stayed there as time began to flow and run as water over rolling plains.

The light was falling from sun-fire skies by the time Arwen stopped singing, the present slipping back into place with the shadows of dusk. Legolas licked his lips and opened his eyes as the gull cries echoed again upon the breeze.

Without warning, Arwen reached out to touch the sides of his hair where it lay unbound about his shoulders. "You are not braided," she said. "May I?"

Legolas glanced at her in surprise. He had woven his central braid to represent his standing in the House of Oropher, but had not threaded his warrior braids since they had returned to Minas Tirith from the Morannon. It had been a long time since someone else had bound his hair.

After a beat he nodded and shifted his weight to his elbows so he half lay in front of her, closing his eyes again to soak up the warmth of the fading sun. Arwen's fingers were swift and sure, and he leant slightly into the touch.

She finished the left side quickly enough, and tapped him on the shoulder, holding out a hand for twine. Legolas passed it over, smiling faintly. "How domestic," he said, twisting his head a fraction to look at her. “Whatever would your promised think?"

Arwen swatted at him. “Keep still!” she said, tying off the braid. "Aragorn knows you well. He would think his dearest friend cannot take proper care of himself, so I must do it for him."

Legolas leaned back into her touch as she started on his right side, the shadows of the garden lengthening around them.

They stayed like that, together, until the stars bloomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Undómiel = Quenya for Evenstar, one of Arwen's epessës
> 
> Tithen-híril = Sindarin nickname meaning little lady
> 
> Ada = Sindarin for Daddy
> 
> Notes:
> 
> Mount Mindolluin is the name of the mountain that Minas Tirith is built into.
> 
> The Bruinen is the river that runs past Rivendell; the Ford was where Frodo taunted the Ringwraiths so Elrond had time to tsunami them downstream in FotR.


	5. The Future we Bring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elrond offers wisdom, Faramir hits his head, and Legolas comes to a realisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional notes are at the end. My thanks for reading!

Legolas watched the third sunrise after Elessar’s coronation balanced on the southern wall of Arwen’s hidden garden, overlooking the plains towards the Sea. It lay, as always, just beyond his sight. Gull cries carried faintly on the breeze.

A flaming dawn licked the sky, and the sun rose full and red from behind the _Ephel Dúath_. Wisps of cloud curled high above the mountains, ablaze with morning sun-fire. The Anduin snaked as a ribbon of molten silver across the rolling plains of the Pelennor, and the forests of Ithilien lay shadowed and silent in the distance. Minas Tirith slept.

It was easy to lose track of time here, sat in the hush of predawn beneath lingering stars and waiting for the sun to lift. Daylight hours brought a constant stream of people and duties awaiting his attention, but here the sky was dim, and the world was still, and Legolas seemed the only person in _Arda_.

He watched as red light filled the sky and the harbour of Pelargir became visible as a faint haze upon the river. He watched the world unfold below him, gaze half-lidded, and turned his _fae_ to the soft brush of the Sea. Its call had grown stronger over the past few days, and there was rarely a moment Legolas did not think of it. Even the dream-paths ebbed and flowed with tidal currents. He could only distantly remember a time before he had heard the gull’s cry.

A soft hum behind him startled Legolas from his musings. He threw out an arm to rebalance himself and turned towards the noise, jumping lightly from the wall when he saw the Lord Elrond stood by the tower door. The lord was clad in a long robe of burnt orange, his loose sleeves embroidered with golden eight-pointed stars. The front pieces of his twilit hair were looped in elaborate healer’s knots, but he wore no circlet.

“ _Hîr nin_ Elrond,” said Legolas, twisting his palm over his heart and inclining his head.

Lord Elrond repeated the gesture, smiling faintly. The golden ring twisted on his right hand flashed with the movement, but the blue stone set into it was dim and pale. He joined Legolas at the wall.

“Forgive this old elf for intruding,” he said, tone mild, as he looked out over the plains. “At times I find I must remind myself a new day still dawns.”

Legolas watched sun-lit clouds thread high across a sun-fire sky. “It is a red dawn,” he said.

Elrond hummed. “But a dawn, nonetheless,” he replied, his gaze still over the plains.

Legolas plucked a strand of dark ivy from the wall and twisted it between his fingers as they watched the daybreak. The leaves were thick and smooth, and they fell to the floor in little pieces as he shredded them. For a time, they did not speak.

When the sun had fully crested the _Ephel Dúath_ , and their shadows cast long and black upon the plains, Elrond turned to Legolas. His eyes shone grey as a clear evening, deep and kind and searching.

“Do you fear the future?” Elrond asked, and his voice was weighted with six thousand years of wisdom and memory. “Or do you fear the present?”

Legolas twisted the vine between his fingers and looked down at the pile of shredded leaves at his feet. He thought of Elessar kneeling in front of his white tree, and twirling Arwen at the feast, and pledging his death to Gondor. He thought of waves cresting his _fae_ , salt-foam breaking and swirling cold, and he thought of Gimli’s laugh and Aragorn’s crooked smile and his father who he had not seen in a year and did not plan to sail. He did not answer.

“Legolas,” said Elrond, his voice gentle but firm. “The world is changed, and it changes swiftly. For men, who burn their lives sun-bright-fast, this is normal. For those of us who linger in starlight whilst those we love pass, it is hard. It is okay, _penneth_ , to fear what may come, but we must not lose sight of the present as we do.”

Legolas met his eyes. They shone with starlight, though there were no stars in the sky.

“We must keep courage,” said Elrond, “To make the most of our eternal time. Abandoning those we love to their fates is not the answer. They were my reason for choosing an elven life; are they not your reason for staying this side of the Sea?”

Legolas cocked his head, startled. He had not realised Elrond had known of his Sealonging, though in hindsight he should have suspected it; the lord was, after all, the finest healer in _Arda_ , and a ringbearer, no less. He was also a father.

Elrond smiled at him with only a trace of sadness. “Elladan told me you heard the gulls at Pelargir,” he said. “I understand you wish to stay, for Estel.”

Legolas looked back into the rising sun until a bright hole lingered in his vision, then rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes so the darkness there sparked. When he opened them Elrond was watching him closely. He self-consciously lowered his hands and took a deep breath.

“I thought I feared the future, my lord… I still do, I think. I am not sure.” He huffed in frustration and twisted the remains of the ivy between his fingers. “There are lots of things I am not sure of, now. But mostly, I fear I am tied too strongly to the past, that I am no longer myself and Estel is no longer Estel.”

Elrond studied him another moment. “He will always be Estel to me,” he said, after a length. “As he will always be Aragorn to you, and Thorongil and Strider to those who knew him as such. Now, he has his crown, and he will be Elessar also.

“You are a warrior, _penneth_ , and a prince, as I am a healer and lord. Arwen has chosen a mortal life, but she will always be my daughter, and Estel will always be both ranger and King. Change need not always be the death of the past, but a new sapling growing from its ashes.”

Legolas had long been divided by his duties to his Realm, but he had struck a balance and managed. Now the world had changed, and those divisions had deepened, and his balance had eroded from under him. In his place lived a war-less soldier, an absent prince, and a hollow Sea.

His love for _Arda_ , Gimli, and Aragorn had bridged that gap, strengthened his will, and given him reason to stay. Legolas wondered if he could come to love the King as he had loved the ranger, and if one truly was the sapling growing from the other’s ashes.

A gull’s cry carried piercing on the wind, and the taste of salt flooded Legolas’ mouth, his _fae_ tugging sharply for the Sea. He titled, disorientated, and closed his eyes to turn so his back was to the wall, sinking to the dewy grass and resting his head on bent knees. Elrond followed, gracefully folding his legs as he sat, and caught Legolas as he listed slightly to the side, pulling him close. He rested a cool hand upon Legolas’ head and smoothed his braided hair. They stayed like that as the sun rose.

When Legolas had regained some of his equilibrium, he took a deep breath and released it slowly. “You sent Lord Glorfindel over, at the feast,” he said, voice slightly muffled by his knees. He felt Elrond hum from where he leaned against him.

“I did.”

“Thank you,” said Legolas quietly, then: “And the other times… yesterday, with Arwen?”

“Arwen would not do anything I asked of her unless she already wished to do it,” said Elrond. He sounded as if he was smiling. “But no, I do not dictate every action of every elf in my household; indeed, I fear they all run quite amok. I have spoken with Glorfindel, but his company is his own to choose. If you think he is seeking you out, _penneth_ , that is for you to ask him.”

Legolas hummed, and Elrond smoothed his hair. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle and his tone serious. “The White Shores have called me too, these past few weeks,” he said. “But ends are also beginnings, and all things come back around, eventually.”

Legolas traced the droplets of water beading the grass and imagined they were fallen stars. Elrond stayed next to him, a cool hand on his head, and they waited out the red dawn together.

* * *

Legolas excused himself from the Lord Elrond’s company as soon as the sun had fully risen and made for the stables with the intention of seeing to Arod, who he had quite neglected in the rush of helping reinstate a foreign monarchy whilst simultaneously serving his own. He had barely entered the Tower of Ecthelion when he bumped (quite literally) into Faramir, who had rounded the corner from the opposite direction.

Legolas shook his head slightly and waited for the ringing in his ears to fade. “My apologies,” he said, when he had regained his senses somewhat. A flush of embarrassment lingered on his cheeks. “You are well?”

Faramir rubbed his head. “I would be better for a few more hours sleep,” he said, with a faint smile. “But do not apologise, please. The fault is equally mine.” He yawned into his elbow, and Legolas half reached out as the papers balanced in the man’s arms tilted alarmingly. Faramir steadied them with the expertise of a scholar familiar with large stacks of books, and smiled as Legolas eyed the paperwork with distrust. “It is not so bad,” he said, then yawned again. “Would that my King sleep in a little longer.”

Legolas considered Faramir. The man still looked slightly pale, though whether it was from tiredness or lingering illness, Legolas could not say. “Aragorn has always been an early riser,” he said, then smiled slightly. “He is cranky for the first few hours of the day, irrespective. If your duties have you up this early, I would avoid interacting with him at least until he has broken his fast.”

Faramir laughed and shifted the books in his arms. “Aye, that sounds familiar,” he said. “Rangers are all much the same, in some regards. Still, I do not have to worry this morn – my King left early for a trip.”

Legolas tilted his head. “A trip?”

“He is climbing Mount Mindolluin,” said Faramir with a smile, “to fetch a tree.”

Legolas blinked. He was both pleasantly surprised at the implication that Aragorn harboured some previously unknown passion for vegetation, and faintly confused at the relevance of the excursion to the man’s Kingly duties. Aragorn had never been one for gardening; though he held what he described as a ‘healthy respect’ for nature, he had resisted all of Legolas and Samwise’s numerous attempts to get him to fully appreciate the wonders of growing things. Though the man had been known to disappear for undetermined periods of time on the odd perilous hiking jaunt, it was unlike him to skive responsibility. _The excursion must therefore be in some official capacity,_ Legolas decided with a nod, then frowned as he realised his conclusion had led him back to his initial question of how trees were in any way relevant to Gondor’s ruling.

He had more important matters to dedicate mind space to than Aragorn’s vegetational whims. He shook his head slightly and smiled again at Faramir.

“Of course,” he said. “A tree.”

The Steward yawned again and excused himself. Legolas spent the remainder of his walk to the stables wondering what Aragorn was doing transporting trees through the citadel, and trying not to acknowledge the thankfulness at his temporary absence that fluttered uncomfortably between his ribs. He needed some time to think.

* * *

Legolas pushed open the stable doors to the sound of nickering and the crunch of an apple. It seemed, in his absence, Arod had gone and found himself a new master.

“Aye, there you go, no need for haste. No, this one is not for you. There you go. You _are_ a handsome beast, are you not?”

Legolas rounded the corner to see the King of Rohan rubbing his horse’s forehead.

The stable was well lit; rays of sunlight streamed through open doors and high windows, and torches blazed where they hung on wooden posts between the stalls. It was airy enough, for a building of men, and with every curl of breeze the flames flickered and jumped. A torch popped next to him, and a spark glowed bright and red as it drifted to the floor. Legolas tried not to think about the potential fire hazard.

Apart from Éomer and a lone stablehand shovelling hay in the corner, the place was empty. Legolas raised an eyebrow, crossed his arms, and waited for them to notice his presence. It did not take long. At Arod’s nicker of greeting they both glanced up, Éomer’s eyes widening slightly as he registered the elf leant against the doorframe watching him slip treats to his horse. The stablehand looked between his two companions, mumbled a hasty “My Lords,” and left at what could almost be described as a run.

Éomer cleared his throat with a faint air of sheepishness and continued to pat Arod, who huffed and leaned into the touch. He seemed quite taken with all the attention, the traitorous animal.

“He is of good stock,” said Éomer, as if by explanation. “You have yourself a fine horse, Master Elf.”

Legolas raised his other eyebrow. “You gifted him to me.”

Éomer gave Arod a pat and then stepped away. “Aye, I did,” he said. His eyes took on a glint then that had nothing to do with the light from the sun or flickering torches. He quirked the corner of his lips. “I could not tempt you to part ways?”

Legolas returned the gesture and uncrossed his arms to tap his chin as if in thought. “He is dear to Gimli, and Gimli him, I am afraid,” he decided. “I fear they would protest fiercely should they be separated for any great length of time… No, it will take more than an apple to break such bonds of loyalty.”

Arod snorted, and Éomer laughed with him. “Aye, and who else should carry the dwarf through battle, if not this noble steed?”

At this comment, Arod huffed smugly, and Legolas walked over to swat at his neck. “One less arrogant than him, for sure.”

The cry of a gull curled through the window above them, and the combination of bright spring sunbeams and flickering torchlight seemed then to twist into queer, liquid shadows. Éomer’s face was partially hidden at the angle he stood. “I do not know how many more battles I will fight,” said Legolas. The thought was unexpected. He was not sure why he voiced it.

Éomer frowned. “We have won this war, aye,” he said, voice grim. “But there will be more battles to come, Master Elf, mark my word. Even on our ride yesterday we dispatched two straggling groups of orc scum. There will be plenty more where that came from.”

Legolas rubbed at Arod’s neck and absent-mindedly twisted his fingers through his mane. Arod nosed at his tunic in search of treats, and Legolas gave him a piece of celery.

“You asked how I took injury,” he said, after a length. Éomer raised an eyebrow but did not reply, and Legolas swallowed thickly before continuing. “My mind… wandered, and I was distracted,” he confessed. “If Gimli had not shouted…” The cry of a gull echoed again through the window high above them, and he twisted his fingers tighter though Arod’s mane. “I have been fighting for my home and my people for nearly three thousand years, Éomer-King. Never has my concentration slipped as it did at the Morannon, there at the end of all things. I could have cost the lives of those I care most dearly about.”

“But you did not,” said Éomer. He was a young King, and a warrior at heart, but in that moment he had the bearings of an old, wise man. “We are warriors, Master Elf, not Gods. We make mistakes. It does not seem to me your error was a grave one.”

Legolas licked his lips but did not reply.

“Two nights ago, you sparred against me with the sword,” said Éomer. His tone held an air of finality. “You planned for the future then. It seems to me as if you have already made your decision.”

He waited a moment longer for Legolas to reply, then patted Arod and took a step back. “I will take my leave,” he said. “I have little free time these days, and there are other horses I would see before I am hunted for endless meetings. If you wish to spar, Master Elf, you know where to find me.” The door swung shut behind him.

Above Legolas, a gull cried. He suppressed a shudder and untwisted his fingers from Arod’s mane and studiously did not look up.

The Sea was a strange thing; he had never felt so whole as when he heard that first gull at Pelargir, and he had never felt so empty as stood here, discussing its potential debilitation of three thousand years of fighting skills and the inevitable parting of his friends.

 _“Do not sacrifice more than you already have,”_ the Lord Glorfindel had said. Legolas would sacrifice himself in a heartbeat; he had already done so, in part, at Pelargir. He was not, however, prepared to sacrifice those he loved. He was divided, but did not have the strength to see those he loved divided by him.

The Lord Elrond was correct; the duty of friendship changed with time, but it would not disappear. Éomer was correct; Legolas was a warrior. He could fight for what he believed in. Time passed as running water over rolling plains, and Legolas could see clearly where his river flowed out to the open Sea. Fate could not be fought forever, he knew, but for now but he was willing to try.

A gull cried again, and Legolas looked up to where it wheeled above the Tower of Ecthelion, just visible through the window. The sky was cloudless, and very blue. It stretched like glass over the city.

The gull cried, and Legolas leant into Arod’s side and closed his eyes and sung with it, softly, lilting notes and curling melodies in the lyrical tones of his Silvan mother tongue. He sung of forests and running rivers over rolling plains, of starlit nights and red dawns and the sun upon his back. He sung of his love for _Arda_ and her people, and he sung of the Sea, all cresting waves and salt-white foam and rocking tides, and he knew he would one day sail those lonely waters, but for how he sat amongst Kings of Men in a city of towering stone.

By the time he stopped singing, the gull had disappeared. Legolas stood, bid Arod farewell, and went in search of Aragorn.

He had all the days of _Arda_ , and longer. The Sea could wait for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elrond’s robes are a pretty political nod to two of his father figures (from the silm), given they kidnapped him and his twin as kids and had an impressive track record of killing other elves and all that. More on Elrond’s bold fashion statements at 6.00pm


	6. The Ones we Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aragorn plants a tree, Gimli and Arwen plot, and Legolas finds his peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter by the wonderful @lycheesodas can be found [here](https://lycheesodas.tumblr.com/post/639151628264587264/final-scene-from-the-days-of-the-king-by)!
> 
> Translations and additional notes are at the end. My thanks for reading!

The Fountain Guards were felling the old White Tree.

Legolas perched upon the narrow wall of the seventh level outcrop, his back to the Pelennor and a warm breeze lifting his hair. The Hall of Kings towered in front of him, layered with columns and lit pale-bright by the late spring sun, its double doors tall and blackened with age. Reflected sunlight flashed from the polished spears and winged helms of the Citadel Guard, so they gleamed bright white-silver at their posts.

It was, Legolas conceded, an impressive sight, a noble city befitting of noble kings.

Thuds of axes and grunts of exertion mingled with birdsong as three of the Guard took alternate swings at the tree in the centre of the courtyard. Dead branches lay brittle and twisted on the flagstones, hollowed and greyed with age. It did not take long for the tree to fall.

A brief silence fell with it, the men stepping back and wiping their brows with the backs of their hands. Legolas could not tell if they were admiring a morning’s work well done or honouring a symbol of hope they had looked up to their entire lives. Two of them looked barely out of boyhood.

Someone coughed and the moment passed, the guards heaving the tree onto a cart and removing it from the courtyard with little more ceremony. By the time Elessar descended from Mount Mindolluin, the sun hung high over the citadel, and there was only empty space where the White Tree had stood.

The King, Legolas thought, looked surprisingly groomed for a man just returned from a mountain hike. His tunic was a royal blue, cuffed and collared with fine white embroidery, and his hair was brushed and tied off his face. He even looked freshly shaved. Had it not been for Faramir’s intel and the sapling in Elessar’s arms, Legolas would have guessed he had just attended a Council meeting, or something of that ilk.

Aragorn stopped at the edge of the courtyard a moment to appraise the change to his landscaping, then shifted his sapling to one arm and accepted a shovel from a guard with the other, hitching up his tunic to kneel on the grass. Legolas heard his right knee crack as he bent, as it always did.

Legolas jumped lightly from his perch and crossed the courtyard to join him.

“Hello,” he said, crouching a short distance away.

Aragorn looked up at him and smiled crookedly. The fine lines around his eyes crinkled as he did. “Hello,” he said. “I have not seen you for days, _mellon nin_. Gimli is of the opinion you have been avoiding us.”

Legolas tilted his head to consider the man. “I have been engaged with matters of State,” he said, idly plucking a blade of grass to weave between his fingers. “Spice taxation, and the like. It is all very thrilling.”

Aragorn grimaced good naturedly. Legolas was unsure how much of the expression was put on. “I eagerly anticipate reading that when it ends up on my desk.”

Legolas offered a half-smile at this new side of their friendship; passing tax agreements between desks was not either of their ideas of a good time. He absently wondered if longing for the mortal peril of back-to-back combat during times of peace should be cause for concern.

“ _Estel will always be both ranger and King,”_ the Lord Elrond had said. Legolas looked upon Aragorn in his fine blue tunic and wondered if within a decade anything would be left of a man who foraged for food and mended his own clothes.

When it became clear Legolas did not mean to reply, Aragorn nudged him and winked. “So, his highness has finally managed to escape his princely duties?”

Legolas twisted the blade of grass once more, then dropped it and met Aragorn’s gaze. “I am seeing to other duties,” he replied.

Aragorn’s eyes were sea-grey and steady, focused with an elf-like intensity Legolas had almost forgotten he commanded; his expression was thoughtful, but Legolas could not tell what he was thinking. A gull cried above them, cresting Legolas’ _fae_ with an icy wave, and he breathed deeply, concentrating on the texture of his tunic under his fingers, the warmth of the sun on his face, and the familiar smells of altheas and pipe-weed.

Aragorn smiled then, and his laugh lines creased even as his eyes lingered with unusual weight. “Times of change are always busy,” he said, softly. He shifted his weight to his other knee, wincing slightly. “How is the Sea?”

“It is bearable,” said Legolas. Aragorn looked unconvinced. His gaze was still focused, clear and grey, and the outer edges of his eyebrows pulled up slightly in concern. He had always been perceptive, even as a child. Legolas swallowed. “It is improving.”

“Have you spoken with anyone?”

“Your foster father, for one,” Legolas told him. “Do not worry overmuch. It is not so bad, anymore.”

Aragorn chewed his lip, looking very much like he was worrying himself overmuch, but did not press the matter.

“I would do it again,” said Legolas. The words fell off his tongue. It seemed suddenly important for Aragorn to understand. “Visit Pelargir. If you asked.”

“I would never ask that of you,” said Aragorn, eyes softening. He looked, in that moment, tired. “I would never have asked that before, if I had known the cost, if I had thought…” He trailed off, looking through Legolas in silence.

Legolas touched his arm. “It is done,” he said. “None of your infamous self-flagellation, please. I am the one afflicted, and I say it is not so bad. Trust me?”

Aragorn smiled, and his eyes shone faintly with salt-water. “You are a terrible patient, Legolas,” he said. “But you know you will always have my trust. Come to me if it becomes too bad, please. We will work something out, I promise.”

Legolas hummed in response and patted his arm again. Aragorn held his gaze for another moment, then shook his head and nodded, seemingly satisfied, and turned back to his sapling. He examined it a moment before standing ─with a crack─ and unfastening his tunic with deft fingers to place it neatly out of the way. He looked back to Legolas, smiled, then picked up the shovel, weighed it briefly it in his hand, and started to dig. Stars were spun royal-blue into the cuffs of his shirt, and crumbs of dirt flecked up the linen sky as he worked.

Legolas stayed crouched nearby and watched with a half-lidded gaze as Aragorn dug, savouring the smell of freshly turned earth and the sun’s warmth on his back. Time ran with liquid fluidity, and the gull cries gradually became fainter till they were distant on the breeze, and Legolas felt somewhat detached from himself, though he found he did not mind. He stayed like that, watching, for quite some while.

When the sun had long passed its zenith and Aragorn’s hole was finished, the man linked his hands over his head and stretched deeply, before releasing his arms with a huff and raking a hand through his hair. Clumps of dirt caught there, and despite his rich clothes, he seemed as much a man of the wild as Legolas could remember. Legolas smiled back.

It did not take long for Aragorn to lower the sapling into the ground and cover it carefully with the displaced earth. They crouched there a moment, together, and observed his work, small and white and living amid the cold stone and polished steel of the courtyard. Eventually Aragorn stretched again and stood.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice held unusual sincerity.

Legolas looked him over and quirked the corner of his lips. “You smell awful.”

Aragorn rolled his eyes and reached out to clasp his forearm. His eyes were bright, his voice steady, and his tone serious. “I do not jest, Legolas,” he said, and Legolas dropped his smile. “All these crowns, these feasts, these duties, I would not suffer without those I love.”

The cry of a gull carried on the wind. Legolas clasped Aragorn’s arm and met his gaze and realised that everything and nothing had changed, these past few weeks. Emotion fluttered against his ribs, and this time it was not uncomfortable. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

Aragorn released his arm, and a smear of dirt lingered on Legolas’ sleeve. “My study, after dinner,” he said. “And tell Gimli. If he thinks you are avoiding him any longer, he will become quite insufferable.”

* * *

Legolas found Glorfindel in the training fields, leant against the wall with his arms crossed as he followed the afternoon drills with a practiced eye.

The elf-lord was easy enough to identify; the pale tunic he wore in place of his usual finery did little to diminish the light that hung about his figure, and his tightly bound rope plait did nothing to mask his hair’s distinctive colour or length. It swung about his hips as he turned his head towards Legolas, and the silver bells at the end tinkled brightly.

Legolas vaulted the wall and perched on the bench next to him, bringing one knee up to rest his chin on as he eyed the drills with interest. Spear-work was relatively uncommon amongst Silvan elves, and the synchronised sweep of fifty blades in flashing sunlight was quite hypnotic.

“If they were mine and I caught one of them with a grip like that, they would all be running laps until they dropped,” said Glorfindel conversationally.

Legolas blinked, and tried to work out if he had just been offered a threat or a promise. It was, he thought, a somewhat alarming start to their conversation.

Glorfindel chucked. “No need to look so worried,” he said. “I am barely competent with the bow. _You_ would be instructing _me_ in that, I think.” He tapped his chin, then winked. “Now, if you ever decided to take up the sword, I would happily beat you into shape.”

Legolas smiled blandly at the elf-lord and carefully did not mention his impromptu spar with Éomer two nights ago.

Glorfindel chuckled again and turned back to the field. His hair chimed brightly as he moved. “What brings you here, _penneth_?”

Fifty spears flashed upwards in synchronisation, gleaming as they caught the sun. Legolas linked his fingers around his leg and twisted them slightly as he considered his reply. “I spoke with the Lord Elrond, this morning,” he said, after a length.

“Ah,” said Glorfindel. He closed his eyes briefly.

Legolas licked the taste of salt from his lips. “You have also spoken with him.”

Glorfindel turned back to him. His gaze was soft, but bright; Legolas met his eyes, and they shone as if pale sunlight had spilled within him. “I have,” confessed Glorfindel. “During the feast, and after.” He paused, and his smile was faint but kind. “You should know, _penneth_ ; I would have come over, even if he had not asked it of me. I daresay concern for your wellbeing has occupied a fair few minds, these past few days.”

Legolas twisted his fingers around his knee. “I am sorry,” he said, and his voice did not break. He swallowed thickly. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” said Glorfindel, “but my concerns and time are freely given. You need not apologise.”

Legolas looked back to the fields, where fifty feet spun in the dirt and fifty voices lifted in a great shout. “Two nights ago, I crossed the courtyard, and I heard bells.” he said, voice shrinking at the end with slight embarrassment. Fifty spears thumped as they struck the ground.

Glorfindel smiled. “You mean to ask if I have been following you,” he said. He made it sound a perfectly reasonable accusation. Maybe for elf-lords of his renown, it was. “I did see you on your night-time wanderings, that is true, but it was not my intention to seek you out. I am sure you are well acquainted with the occasional elusiveness of the dream-paths.”

A gull circled overhead, and Legolas shuddered. Glorfindel reached down to place a hand upon his shoulder, warm and firm and calloused. The pressure was grounding, and Legolas leaned slightly into the touch.

“I have heard the Sea,” he confessed, softly, as they watched the spearmen train.

Glorfindel hummed. “It is in your eyes,” he said. “Those of us who have seen it before…” he trailed off. “I do not know how it feels to drown, myself, but I know what it is to burn, and to fall.”

Spears flashed steel-bright as they spun in the afternoon sun, their wielders grunting together as they turned.

“You and I, _penneth_ , we are warriors,” said Glorfindel. “We know what it is like to lose those we love, and you are cursed with the knowledge you will lose more, come the end.” His words were weighted with an almost prophetic rhythm, and Legolas shivered under his molten gaze. Overhead, a gull cried faintly.

“I know what it is to be lost to myself, _penneth_ ,” Glorfindel continued, and his voice was traced with something ethereal. “That is something I would not wish on anyone.”

He dropped to the bench next to Legolas with a tinkle of bells. His hand remained steady on Legolas’ shoulder. “Sometimes I blink, and the sun catches the stone, and the citadel gleams pale in the mountainside,” he said, voice hushed as if he were sharing a secret, “and in those moments, I dream I am in Gondolin.” His grip on Legolas’ shoulder tightened slightly, and there was a short pause before he continued.

“It is a hard thing, when one’s _fëa_ longs for the ghosts of memory,” Glorfindel said at last. “But I will tell you a secret, _penneth_. Sometimes, embracing the future is the best way to honour the past. It is best not to say farewell before your time.”

Legolas smiled faintly into his knees and swiped a hand across his eyes. It came away damp with salt-spray. “Lord Elrond said much the same thing.”

Glorfindel laughed softly, and the bells at the end of his braid chimed brightly as they swung with the movement. “Then he is a wise elf, indeed.”

The spearmen swung again, fifty curving arcs of steel slicing a glass-blue sky. “Thank you,” said Legolas.

Glorfindel’s smile was tinged with understanding. “It is my pleasure,” he replied. “Thank you, _penneth_.”

They stayed a little longer, until the sun began to fall and the sky began to dim. When the sign by the gate was flipped from ‘ _spears_ ’ to ‘ _blades_ ’, Legolas bid the Lord Glorfindel farewell. His strategic retreat was followed by chiming laughter.

* * *

A velvet evening layered upon the sky that night, a wide, deep purple beyond the window. Eärendil tilted high above the citadel, a lone point of blue-bright light in a sea of white-bright stars, and Legolas lifted his face to the heavens and watched the world track across the open sky in tails of trailing light.

 _I do not know what comes, Eärendil_ , he offered silently. _But I offer my thanks for your guidance, all the same._

With this admission, everything changed, and nothing changed, and Eärendil looked down upon him and Legolas smiled faintly. He gazed through the stars another moment before turning from his balcony and making his way to Aragorn’s study.

Gimli and Arwen had apparently beaten him to it, for they were both waiting outside. Legolas twisted his palm over his heart in greeting to Arwen, then turned to acknowledge Gimli, who was standing at an unusually formal distance, twisting the end of his beard between his fingers. Gimli grunted in acknowledgement, then nodded rather pointedly at Arwen.

Legolas turned back to her, slightly confused. “You are meeting with Aragorn tonight?” he asked.

Arwen laughed and shook her head. “Do not worry,” she said. “You have him to yourselves. I was just about to leave when Master Gimli was kind enough to inform me of your imminent arrival. I thought I might say a brief hello.”

Gimli cleared his throat and fiddled with his beard, looking decidedly awkward. Legolas felt as if he had been left out of a loop somewhere along the way.

He blinked uncertainly. “Hello?”

Arwen smiled. “You are strange,” she said fondly. “Well, hello, I suppose.” She stepped closer and took one of his hands. Her touch was soft, but her gaze was critical. “Hmm, you do look better,” she decided. “If you need anything, you will let me know, won’t you?”

Legolas murmured his acquiescence, and Arwen stepped away with a nod, turning to smile again at Gimli. “Goodbye Master Gimli,” she said. “My thanks for your concerns.” She left in a swirl of grey velvet and twilit hair.

Legolas squinted at Gimli, who shifted his weight and scowled in response. The expression looked rather put-on to Legolas, and fondness curled in his chest at the realisation. What was it about his friends going behind his back, the past few days?

“What are you grinning at, lad?” asked Gimli gruffly, tucking his beard into his belt. “Your head’s in the clouds again. It took you long enough to get here.” He opened the door and waved a hand for Legolas to enter. Legolas flashed him an even brighter smile and accepted.

Aragorn’s study was dark panelled and well lit, with a large desk in the centre and several plush armchairs by a fireplace to one side. The grate was lit, the fire low, and a warm glow brushed the room.

The King was at his desk, chin propped on hand, leafing through a sheaf of papers half-heartedly. Two arching windows backlit him with a mantle of stars, and the fire painted his face with golden shadows. He looked up with a grin as they entered, and immediately dropped his papers, standing to round the desk.

“At last!” he said, clasping their shoulders in greeting. “One more building report would finish me. Did you want a drink?”

Gimli grunted in acknowledgement for them both, and Aragorn fetched a decanter and three cups from a cabinet whilst they sat. Legolas tucked his legs up onto the seat and watched with a smile as Gimli pulled out his pipe and shuffled about to get comfortable. Aragorn appropriated the nicest remaining armchair with startling efficiency, placing the drinks next to him and crossing his legs over the arm. When he leaned back and stretched his hands above his head, his spine popped in three places.

Gimli rolled his eyes at the antics, and Legolas laughed and accepted his cup with a nod of thanks and an absent flex of his elbow.

Aragorn sat up straighter, gaze immediately sharpening. “How fares your arm?” he asked, in a tone Legolas was unfortunately familiar with; that of a healer who expected to be obeyed.

“You and Gimli both,” said Legolas, taking a drink. “Keep your interventions, please. It is healed. Your brother cleared me for full duties two days ago.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, managing somehow to look simultaneously faintly amused and entirely unimpressed. “You sound like Gimli when you grumble, _mellon nin_ ,” he said, then frowned slightly. “What is this about interventions?”

Gimli spluttered slightly into his cup.

“Gimli has been lying to my Guard,” decided Legolas. “Eluchon would not let him in, so he said he was visiting on an intervention at your behest.”

Gimli raised an eyebrow and put down his cup. “Aye, but he got his boots back,” he said, turning his pipe over and lighting it with a quick strike. “That’s a fair enough trade.”

Aragorn raised his other eyebrow, now looking faintly impressed. “It worked?” he asked, apparently opting to ignore the revelation that two of his visiting delegations were thieving from each other.

“Aye, of course it worked─”

“You are missing the point─”

Legolas turned to glare at Gimli and found the dwarf doing the same to him.

Aragorn laughed. “You are both grumbling again,” he said, then raised his cup to Gimli. “You have my permission, Master Dwarf, to invoke Elessar’s name during any future interventions. Wood-elves, I have found, can be incredibly stubborn.”

Gimli returned the salute with his pipe and settled back into his chair with a smug smile.

Aragorn turned back to Legolas. “If all present interventions are dealt with and your arm is healed, I find myself lacking a decent sparring partner,” he said over his cup. “The soldiers are going easy on me. They fear to damage my reputation, I think.”

“It is a poor reputation that is broken so easily,” jested Legolas. The warmth from the fire was soft on his face, and the Sea only faintly brushed his mind. He felt more centred than he had in weeks. “Besides, you have been beaten off the mark. Éomer-King is my new sparring partner, now.” He tilted his head as if in thought. “Though the Lord Glorfindel is generous, I have heard. I am sure he would be willing to oblige a lowly human King the odd spar.”

Aragorn shuddered. “I will give you benefit of the doubt and assume that comment was ignorant rather than malicious in intent. Had Glorfindel made _you_ lap the Rivendell valley twelve times for poor technique, you would not find such jests humorous. The soldiers would not have to fear for my reputation; I would be deceased before I completed my first week upon the throne.” He paused for breath. “Éomer?”

“He keeps strange hours,” said Legolas, and took another sip of wine.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow.

Gimli took his pipe out of his mouth and shook it at them both. “And I suppose I am just a slab of meat?” he asked indignantly. “You want a dwarf as a sparring partner, lad, not some daydreaming elf.” He blew a long puff of smoke, and Legolas waved it away with a scowl. “Remind me, Master Elf, how many orcs you slayed at Helm’s Deep? I must have forgotten.”

“You forget because your brains are addled,” mumbled Legolas in Sindarin.

Aragorn put up a hand. “Now, now,” he drawled. “Children.”

Gimli and Legolas levelled him with equally fierce glares, and he hastily retracted his limb. The scene was so strange and familiar that Legolas could not help laughing.

Gimli raised his eyebrows at Legolas, then turned back to Aragorn. The man’s eyes were bright, and his lips were quirked. “Head in the clouds,” Gimli grumbled as he chewed on his pipe, his own eyes crinkling slightly. “Remind me how he survived that blasted run across Rohan?”

Aragorn swung his legs back over the chair arm so he was sitting properly, and lifted his cup in salute. “A toast,” he said, and smiled crookedly. “To the three hunters.”

Gimli grunted and lifted his own cup. “May they never run again.”

Legolas looked upon his friends as they basked in the firelight and smiled. “To the days of the King,” he said, “may they be many and blessed.”

They all drunk to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Mellon nin = Sindarin for ‘my friend’ (It really took until the last chapter to appear?!)
> 
> Fëa = Quenya for ‘soul/spirit’ (previously referred to by Legolas as fae in Sindarin, but Glorfindel’s native tongue is Quenya, so that’s the term he uses here)
> 
> Notes:
> 
> Aragorn’s hike up Mount Mindolluin is quite a flex; only kings of Gondor are allowed on the trail. That’s canon, I promise.
> 
> Gondolin was the city Glorfindel used to live in. I figure there's probably some unresolved trauma there, given him and his best mate died defending it. #FirstAgeFriendshipBonding
> 
> Thank you all for reading this far, and for the kind reviews! I hope you enjoyed. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, and I try to reply to reviews if I can. :)


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